Harry wasn’t quite sure what to expect when he entered the house where his parents had died. Approaching from the front you couldn’t tell of what happened, if you ignored the magicals only historical marker. At least it appeared that it had been well maintained since his parents had died. The garden was not overgrown, in fact if anything it was immaculately maintained, with each paver on the walk carefully edged, so not a single blade lay on the slate path. It wasn’t the result of a hasty clean up either. Harry could tell the difference.
The door had opened softly, without a single sound. The first room was a large one with several chairs and a pair of love seats facing each other in front of a fire place. He could smell the smell of the fire it had once held. There was a set of stairs, four steps up before turning perpendicular against the wall. His eyes were not there, though he did intend to go upstairs. His eyes were on a simple brown cloak laying on the ground next to the stairs with a wand placed on top of it.
He’d been told of the tradition, that a fallen hero’s cloak and wand would be left in place for the family by an auror who had come by after Harry had sent word to Professor McGonagall that he wanted to see the cottage. Harry reached down and picked up the wand. He could hear Ollivander’s description, mahogany, eleven inches, pliable. It was so much more. As he took it in his hand, he felt warmth and protections fill him, and a moment of a memory of watching ethereal snitches trail from it as an indistinct man swished and flicked it in front of him overtook him. He placed the wand in the breast pocket of the white dress shirt that he’d worn to Godric’s Hallow, and bent over again.
This time Harry picked up the cloak, and smelled the scent of hard work, dirt, and some of the flowers he’d seen in the garden. He ran his hand across where his father’s name had been embroidered in black on the left breast. He couldn’t leave it on the ground, but it needed to remain. He looked at the hat stand that was a bit further in. He moved it and gently draped his father’s cloak over it. He briefly cast his gaze around the front parlor again, before heading upstairs.
At the top of the landing were two doors. The one on the right was smaller, and had a sign marked with a golden snitch and the name Harry in an imitation childish font. The one on the left was plain. He figured that it was his parent’s room. He knew that his mother had died in his room, and he couldn’t quite bring himself to see that room yet, so he went into his parent’s room.
He knew from Hermione that parent’s rooms were sanctuaries where parents could retreat to do things that it was best not to think of. Hermione had told him that she’d rarely gone into her parent’s rooms, save for special times like waking her parents up for birthdays and Christmas. It was considered a treat to be invited to snuggle up between her parents on the bed. Not remembering his own parents, he imagined that the same would be with his parents.
The bed was turned down on one side, and there was a wine glass fallen to the floor, leaving a stain where the liquid had splashed out. Opposite the bed there was a window nook, with an old rocking chair sitting in it. A slightly stained with mother’s milk cloth laid on the left arm of the chair. Harry found himself moving to sit in it, his fingers idly stroking the scroll work on the underside. Above the bed was a painting the black lake of Hogwarts in the autumn, the Forbidden Forrest edging against one side, and track used by the Hogwarts Express stretching across the far shore. As he watched, the Express chugged through.
The moment’s silence enabled him to collect himself and head towards the room that had once been his. He opened the room, not sure what to expect. Sun streaked through the window to the West that had once been broken and restored. There was also an east facing window, but his attention was first drawn to the crib, with its mobile of still flickering snitches. Harry imagined that Jimmy would enjoy those. There was also another rocker, a changing table with a diaper left in position to be put on. It was bigger than the ones that Jimmy used, but Harry had been older. There was a wardrobe and bookcase as well.
On the bookcase was candle, much like the one that Harry had lit for Jimmy at his Baptism. It lit as Harry approached, and Harry recognized it as his own magic. His luminous was known to be a lot warmer white than most of his class. He reached out with his hand towards it, and the candlelight brightened. He smiled.
Then he looked down to discover another cloak, just like his father’s on the floor. It was the same brown auror robe style that his father had, save that above the left breast pocket he could see “Lily Evans Potter” embroidered in black, not quite as centered as his father’s had been. He reached down to pick up the robes, just like he had picked up his father’s. This time, though he found himself unable to stand back up, as tears filled his eyes. Holding his mother’s robes against his body, Harry let himself cry.